


Untitled 6x11 Tag

by error_page



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season 6 Spoilers, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/error_page/pseuds/error_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief moment of Sam and Dean after the events of Appointment in Samarra (6x11).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled 6x11 Tag

**Author's Note:**

> A brief word of warning - if run-on sentences annoy you, best to back away now. It's a POV, stream-of-consciousness type piece, so the punctuation is more useful than grammatically correct.

When Sam screams, Dean closes his eyes tight and looks away, can't stand to see Sam's face when his mind dissolves because he knows, he just _knows_ that Death's wall bullshit didn't work, couldn't work, that Sam's gone, has been gone a year and a half now, and what little of Sam he had left, he's lost that too, now. He's not aware that when Sam carries on screaming, he starts, not the pure, ear-splitting agony of Sam's cry, he's angry, beyond angry, and he launches himself at Death in a blind fury, screaming and swearing, fist flying, whole body in the air behind a punch that doesn't – couldn't – connect.

Death is gone, and Dean hits the floor, hard, left hand down in time to brace himself. He feels more than hears the clunk of his shoulder, but he definitely hears the sharp snap of his wrist, and if he'd had his mouth closed, hadn't already been yelling, he'd have been able to mask the sound he makes, but he wasn't, and the end of his furious yell comes out as a breathless cry of pain, sick in his shoulder, sharp in his wrist, and he rolls over onto his back, cradling his arm against his chest as much as he can without moving his shoulder.

“Dean.” Dean looks up through the haze of pain and tears and fear, sees Death standing over him. “That was incredibly stupid.”

“Yeah.” Dean grunts out, jaw clenched tight enough to make his words more implication than sound, and then the world fades out a little, and Dean taps two fingers on his broken wrist, sharp stab of pain enough to bring him back to awareness, “Sam. Sammy, come on. Sam.”

Sam's silent, now. Unconscious, probably, but Dean can't see over the bed, can only see where one of Sam's arms has fallen, limp, fingers of his open hand just brushing the carpet, and Dean finds himself staring at that hand; long, strong fingers, nails bitten back rough, skin pale and Dean knows it's lifeless. He'd always hated it when Sam slept silently, more when he passed out from pain or tiredness, because it's too close to dead, and even with the slight rise and fall of his chest, Dean's never been able to not see cold, wide, dead eyes overlaid on Sam's sleeping face. He's thankful he can't see Sam's face now, doesn't want to see it ever again, has seen it too many times dead and cold, never again.

“Dean, he's alive.” Death says, offering a hand to pull him up, and Dean doesn't think about what the hell that's supposed to mean, isn't sure he should touch, and wouldn't anyway. He pushes himself up with his good arm, regrets letting the left go as the strain of it falls onto the dislocated shoulder with a lurch that turns his stomach and makes his vision fade out at the edges. “He's exhausted. Sleeping. The wall is intact.”

Dean sags with relief, and then Death is gone, mission complete, message imparted, gone. For a long moment Dean is alone with what still feels like his brother's body, because the crushing terror-fear-loss of _knowing_ Sam was dead can't pass that easily, and then it all sweeps over him, Sam's alive and whole and here, and Dean blacks out.

Dean wakes again, can't be more than a few minutes later, and he glances at his watch to double check, stupid, _stupid_ move, part because it's on the wrist he'd forgotten was broken, and partly because something woke him up. Knowing what's there is more important than knowing when it is, and he's known that since he could tell the time, so he figures he must be really messed up.

“Dean.”

“Cas?” Dean asks, and winces at how rough his voice is, part exhaustion, part pain, but the rest unmistakeably from tears, which is odd, because he doesn't remember crying. He feels cold and washed out, though, almost empty, and numb enough not to care.

“Here.” Dean jumps when Castiel touches him, surprised even though he shouldn't be, and then there's a hot sting all over, bright light in his mind, not his eyes but he can't see anyway, and as the pain and warmth dissipate, the ache in his arm goes with it.

“Thanks.” He says, and looks over at Sam, flexing his arm to test it. Sam is still sleeping, face almost peaceful for once. These past few years, Sam's looked stressed even in the middle of the night, eyes and fingers twitching irritably with dreams, slight frown never gone too long. “Sam?” He asks, reaches out to shake Sam's shoulder, stops, and wonders when he got so afraid of touching his own brother. “Sammy?” He says, louder, instead. He turns to Castiel, opens his mouth, and-

“Sam's fine.” Castiel tells him, and that hadn't been what Dean was going to ask.

“Was gonna ask if you'd get out.” Dean says, can't help the bitterness, and doesn't really regret it. Not even when he knows it came out rough enough the only really audible part was 'get out'. Castiel's too damn busy with Heaven these days to come help them out unless he's tricked into it, but he can come to gawk at Sammy like this? No. Dean won't let that happen. This is his moment, his and Sam's, and Castiel doesn't get to be a spectator again.

“Alright.” Castiel nods, slightly, and Dean can see he hasn't got the faintest idea why he's going, but he's gone.

“De-” Sam's voice cracks on the syllable, and Dean is instantly next to him, kneeling awkwardly hunched over on the bed, doesn't care, and he's got one hand on Sam's shoulder, half bracing himself up, the other in Sam's hair, just touching, has to know Sam's alive, Sam's here with him. “Dean.” Sam says, again, looking up at him, eyes wide and shining a little in the light. Sam draws in a breath that cracks a little, and then he's biting his lip, rolling his eyes upward and Dean wants to laugh, to call him a girl, but fuck if his throat isn't tight with tears as well, and he half falls onto Sam, holds onto him as tight as he can, tight enough it's hurting him and probably Sam too, Sam's shoulder blade digging in just above his collar bone, cutting off his air even more, and he doesn't know when he let go and started crying, but Sam is moving, and holding onto him, and probably crying too, the great big girl, and it's relief and desperation and grief and _everything_ that's happened in the last few years, and Dean feels hollowed out and empty and refreshed all at once, and he doesn't quite know how to deal with that.

When he can finally take a clear breath in, he's shocked to realize that he's not holding on to Sam, Sam is holding on to _him_ , and he's managed to end up curled into Sam. He didn't plan on making the kind of grunt, kind of growl, discontented noise, but he does, and moves back. He gives Sam a 'never speak of this again' glare, and glares harder when Sam just laughs.

Eventually, Dean laughs too, and they're clutching at each other again, hysterical this time, and Dean can't breathe in right, breath catching in his throat, and what the fuck, is he crying _again_? It's getting ridiculous, is what it is, but Sam's still laughing with him, and then somehow they're kissing, and it's kind of disgusting, and messy, because they're both crying and neither can stop shaking long enough to get it quite right, getting corners of mouths and Dean nearly bites Sam's tongue when he can't hold in the laugh or sob or whatever it is caught in his throat.

Sam's the first one to get control, and that should worry Dean, that's Sam's still so calm and controlled, but he was laughing and crying too, and that's good, well, not good, but better than nothing at all, and Sam's rolling them over, pressing Dean tight to him, not uncomfortably this time, but close so they fit, kissing again, still wet with tears but better, good, and because Dean's feeling better than he has in so long he can't object to Sam pushing him around, shoving him this way and that, hand spread over Dean's face, palm warm on Dean's damp cheek, holding him in just the right place so they fuse together perfectly, lips to arms to chest to hips.

Dean's half out of himself, exhausted with pain and crying, but Sam's there, holding him together, and he's holding Sam together, and it's right, it's _perfect_. Dean isn't aware of it when he first starts moving his hips against Sam's, tentative, almost, testing the waters, but not hesitant. Sam's more confident than he is, lifting up to look down at Dean, and Dean flushes and tries to look away when their eyes meet, but Sam's hand holds him in place. They're doing this, he realizes, and it's only partly a surprise, because they've been building up to this for years, but never quite got there, and now, moving together, it's the right time. He's more aware of Sam than he is of himself, only feeling where Sam's touching, can't think around the press of Sam's body, the way Sam's back arches up when they move just right, the way he breaks the kiss to moan and bite his lip when Dean grabs at his ass to pull him closer, tighter, and then something _snaps_ , and they're biting each other more than kissing, Dean can taste blood in his mouth, his or Sam's, and Sam's shoulder knocks awkwardly against his as they both try to pull their shirts off at the same time, and Sam's rough fingernails scratch the tight skin over Dean's hip trying to get his belt undone, and Dean can't get to Sam's pants through the two handed fuck up Sam is making of trying to get Dean out of his jeans.

By the time they're both undressed, mostly - Dean's still got one sock on, and Sam's shirt is tangled around his wrist – Dean's gone from half out of his body to needing to _desperate_ , needs to feel Sam against him, needs to know in every way that's he's alive, that they both here and living and right, and the only way he can feel that is to push back with Sam, to bite and scratch and beg and moan, to claw _this_ reality onto the back of Sam's shoulders, the same way Sam is doing with teeth latched onto Dean's neck, sucking and biting, and it hurts, but it's good, and Dean just holds on and goes with it.

It's not the best sex Dean has ever had, not by a long shot. They're tired and still half crying, and his shoulder aches with remembered pain, but there's something else about it, something better than Dean has ever had before, better than anything he ever fantasized about, and it takes him a second to work out it's love and need and pure, complete connection, the knowledge that Sam is feeling the _exact_ same thing as he is, right now, right this instant, and he'll never admit it, but that's what pushes him over the edge, from moving for the pleasure of it to not being about to stop himself, out of control and mindless, biting down onto Sam's neck to hide the noise he makes, rides out his orgasm with his eyes closed tight, face hidden in Sam's shoulder, shaking.

Sam comes not long after, just as torn apart as Dean, and they lie there, shaking, gasping for breath, and with his head on Sam's shoulder Dean can hear the thunder of his own blood in his ears and feel Sam's pulse racing too. Even with the desperation gone, neither can stop the need to touch, to feel, Sam's hand moving on Dean's back, Dean drawing idle patterns on Sam's chest with two fingers, following the lines of the tattoo one minute, wandering off to move lightly over the line of muscle, but never stopping, never breaking the connection.

“You alright?” Sam asks, finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Am I-” Dean chokes the word off with a laugh. “I'm the one should be asking that.”

Sam laughs too, and it's not hysterical any more, but more tired and sad than it should be. “I'm fine, Dean. Sleep. You look like you haven't in weeks.”

Dean should argue that, point out that he has been sleeping, that it's Sam that hasn't, but he's too tired. The bed's narrow, he tells himself, so he _can't_ move away from where his head is pillowed on Sam's shoulder, not if he wants to stay on the bed. He blames Sam for that, stupid, overgrown not-so-little little brother. It's not like he could move away, even if he wanted to. He hopes Sam's arm goes numb from where he's lying on it.

The last thought Dean has as he falls asleep is Sam's alive.


End file.
